


Broken Windows, shattered mirrors

by IAmNotOneOfThem



Category: Cloud Atlas (2013), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Crossover, M/M, Mentioned suicide, Reincarnation, Skyatlas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotOneOfThem/pseuds/IAmNotOneOfThem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James dreamt of Q shooting himself in the mouth, blood spilling into a tub. He saw a face in the mirror, and it wasn't his. He felt drawn to Q, but had no idea why, and there was a melody in his head he had never heard before.</p>
<p>There was no guide about how to keep on living when the memories of your last life start haunting you, but there was always a time it could come in handy. The time has come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_He ran up the stairs as fast as he could, his heart beating fast, too fast, not the steady, controlled beat it usually was. He felt like screaming, and like crying, like laughing in hysteria and the pure feeling of something shattering inside him._

_Maybe there was no reason to panic._

_Maybe he was worrying without a reason and his mind was playing sick, twisted games on him, but **he** hadn't been there this morning, and it couldn't be a coinsidence, it simply wasn't possible._

_He nearly slipped as he tried to get up faster, so many possibilities, endings and dramas going through his head, a constant singing of 'I'm going to be too late, he will be death, I cannot save him, this cannot be real' in his head._

_Panic was a strange, new feeling. One he wasn't quite familiar with._

_It was an all-consuming, all-prepossessing burning urge in his veins, boiling, hot, destroying like a demon, with its claws scratching and tearing at his mind, and with its teeth ripping his sanity apart._

_It reminded him of love, only in a cruel, less human way._

_Perhaps this was the price of what they did, of what they dared to do._

_Maybe they all had been right, after all, and what they had was a sin worth punishment, but maybe they all were wrong and it was just destiny, a fixed point in time - how was he supposed to know? He had never wanted to be dragged into something like this, had never wanted **him** to leave and disappear, to go somewhere where he couldn't be protected, and where cruelty was worse than it was in his home town._

_Those blasted letters. This terrible life, this terrible burden, too heavy for a single shoulder alone, too heavy for a human being, too heavy for him, and it would be his end, he knew it._

_There was no way that this could end in a positive way, he was certain, yet part of his brain didn't want to accept it, embraced the sparkle of a flame called hope in his mind, hot and painful but it was there, so there had to be a way._

_They could run. They could run and never come back, and they could just turn their backs to this life, and go away._

_Sweet, oh you bittersweet hope, so tempting, so beautiful, so wrong, nothing but a lie and yet more realistic to him at this moment in a moment of despair and desperation than the cold truth._

_Someone would die, someone very dear to him would die and he would be too late._

_He nearly slipped as he ran around the corner, breath coming out in pants, panic rushing through him and giving him a speed he had never possessed before. Only a few more steps, only a bit more, hold on please._

_There was hope._

_Some hope, something to hold onto, and if it was the possibility of hiding until their deaths must have been in this somewhere, a tiny help, **something**. They could hide. They could be caught, and killed, or sentenced to a life in prison, but they would have each other and it would be fine._

_There might have been a better world waiting, but so what?_

_They would never be there. They would be torn apart and without a chance of reunion. Why hoping for a better life when you were living now, he thought, trying to run faster, heart beating in his chest, threatening to break out through his chest, so loud and strong it must have been audible in the staircase._

_It was just as he had nearly reached the room **he** was staying in - it was just as he felt a sting of hope, and a sting of determination that he would be able to make it - as there was a shot._

_The 'No' he wanted to say never came out, and neither did the scream stuck in his throat._

_His chest felt like someone put some weight on him, one of **his** pianos perhaps, and the thought was so bitter he was paralyed for several painful seconds, only being able to stare at the limp, moveless form of the other._

_There was blood._

_So much blood. It was red and sticky and there was no water, only fabric being soaked with **red** and red and it was so much red._

_Taking a deep breath, he rushed to the other's side, wrapping his arms around the slender frame, trying to feel a pulse or a heartbeat, or something, but he couldn't._

_As he closed his eyes, tears running down his cheeks and sobs he wanted to let out never doing so,_ James opened his eyes, gasping.

The room was dark around him, a consuming blackness his eyes quickly got used to, and the air cold. For a moment James had no idea where he was, or why he was in a room, all alone, and not in a king-sized bed with an exotic beauty in his arm, body sore, muscles aching and head thrumping from a hungover killing his cells and his being, and his very soul.

He was all alone, and somehow this felt wrong. He expected to see someone at his side as he turned, sunlight slowly breaking through the thick clouds at the sky, some raindrops still falling down. Britain, in all its glory, London's dirty sky and the dirtier streets, with too many people not having a bloody idea about how their lives were in danger every day, and that people sacrificed their own to safe them.

James threw his legs over the bed, bare feet cold against the rug and body swaying a bit as he forced himself into a standing position, shoulders rolling and eyes fluttering to close again.

He just wanted to sleep, but there was this danger, this laying threat of dreaming the same dream again, of seeing this man resembling Q so much shooting himself and of finding him.

James' usual dreams were much the same: Death.

The death of his parents, the death of Vesper, M, every single person James cared for, they all died underneath his hands, died as soon as they came into contact with the curse and his blue eyes.

He had green-ish, slightly blue eyes in his dream, James remembered, slowly walking into his kitchen with little enthusiasm. Maybe he had some coffee left. Or vodka, perhaps even some of the old scotch he had tried to down in one sip yesterday night, coming home from a mission.

Another death, another wound and scar, life went on.

James made himself coffee, added the little alcohol left in his bottle and downed it as it still was hot, burning his tongue, leaving a numbness behind.

He had the day off, but would go into the HQ anyway, if only to annoy Q.

Q.

The little Quartermaster with the messy hair, and the glasses, his cardigan and this sassy personality, _his green eyes, and the way his fingers move over the_ keys _with such a grace that he could only watch him with a smile, admiring the birth mark he could see, dark against pale flesh_.

James blinked once or twice, stared into his cup and made a mental note to either buy some more, or simply steal it out of Q-branch.

They would have his head for this, certainly, but he hardly minded that. As if some geeky, little nerds with their computers could do much damage when taking off caffeine for longer than five hours. How they even managed to live under circumstances like these, it was a miracle.

Looking out of the window, James' attention drifted from the mission he had last to his dream, and back to Q without him wanting to, without any indicator of why or how, but it was there, the picture of Q in the tub.

Something in James cramped, a dark feeling of fury and desperation clawing at him, and the cup fell down on the ground as James crushed it in his hand, not even noticing that his skin was cut open, and that there was blood.

_Red. Red. Blood. Red. Redredredredredredred._

"For fuck's sake", James breathed out and ran a hand through his hair, stepping over the shards and heading to his bathroom, getting rid of his shirt and his trousers on the way, passing his corridor and half of the flat naked.

This had been going on for ages. Those dreams, those random conversations in his head which he had clearly never witnessed before, yet they felt familiar, this strange feeling of being broken and whole at the same time - it was confusing, annoying and it could bloody well stop now, thank you.

Dreams were idiotic, a trick of the mind, and of the less important part of all things. Sub-consciousness. What was his trying to tell him?

Shoot Q in the head when he wants to take a bath with clothes on and without any water?

Unlikely.

Very much so.

James didn't bother wrapping a bandage around his hand and simply got into the shower cabin, turning the water on and closing his eyes.

_"This tune sounded wrong."_

_"I beg your pardon? I didn't know you were the pianist of us two."_

_"Well, I am full of surprises, my love._

_"My dear Sixsmith-"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Just get into the tub? The water is getting cold."_

_Warm hands on his, colder than his skin and yet beautifully_ mild _and the right temperature. Lips on his, soft, loving, with a gentleness yet firmness he felt himself aching for._

_There was a melody playing in his mind, a silent, easy tune, beautiful, pure, just like_ him _and there was water, surrounding him and giving him back the warmth he had lost by walking around naked in the tiny room he had lent for both of them._

Lifting his hand, _he ran his fingers through **his** hair, feeling the soft, short curls, and the other hand ran over the light stubble at the younger's jaw, a gentle brush, nothing more and as he leant down to kiss the dark-haired man_ he nearly slipped and fell, but managed to hold himself up, eyes open widely, shock and disbelief.

James stared at the shower wall opposite to him, trying to figure out what just had happened.

Again? It was getting worse, and worse each day, those voices in his head, the pictures, the feeling of skin and lips and blood, and as James stared down he saw water mixed with blood, dropping down _his arm, coming from his head_ hand, onto the tiles, white.

The agent took a deep, shaky breath, and tried to remember what he had drunken last night, if there had been any pills in it, or if it could have been poisoned.

But he had been alone, so there was nothing wrong with the alcohol. But with James.

He shook his head, put some clothes on and went to work, and something inside him stopped being tense and full of dark, ugly fear, and the tucking in his mind got weaker the closer he got to Q-branch.

_"Everyone will know my name, one day, Sixsmith, I promise you that."_

_"What do you need a name for, love? I know it and that's enough. Even a letter would be enough for me."_


	2. Chapter 2

Q-branch was the usual representation of everything which shouldn't be allowed too close to dangerous, _shiny_ explosive things, full of bombs, guns, too much caffeine and too many little nerds and their crazyiness.

In total, it was the Six's worst and best branch at once, and James had found himself going down there more often than acceptable in the last few months since Skyfall.

He didn't know why, had not the tiniest idea about it, but it was fine since Q had no idea either. It would be a shame would Q stop asking _'What are you doing here?'_ out of a sudden, and it would be a bigger shame would James give him a reason to.

Q-branch offered the same, chaotic view as usual as James stepped inside, the scent of coffee, biscuits and burnt plastic laying in the air.

Some minions whose names James still had not bothered to remember, though he saw them nearly on a daily basis when he wasn't away on a murdering and killing spree, were sitting behind their computers, all in their knit-wear like a secret, dark organisation there to bring knitting over the world - the thought alone made James smirk, as amusing as it was, they couldn't even remember to eat regularily, how would they be able to conquer the world?

There was no sign of Q whatsoever, but that mostly meant he was at the shooting range, testing his newest weapon so James could destroy it again.

The thoughts about his dream, the strange words, voices and foreign dialogues in his head was replaced by a genuine amusement, and a calmth James usually never felt.

Q-branch had a strange effect on him.

It was as calming as it was exiting, it was something _new_ , shiny, explosive and dangerous, and the scent of gunpowder in the morning filled James with satisfaction.

Somewhere in his mind, he knew it wasn't because of the guns and weapons surrounding him, nor because of the familarity of watching people work on the gadgets he would use to kill.

Something in him knew a truth his conscious didn't, and as annoying as it was, it was also incredibly bothersome. Subconscious, why did it matter which part of his brain knew something and which didn't, it was one mind, one broken and shattered soul, resembling a broken window. 

James never understood those studies, and still saw no need to, so as his mind supplied him with another dialogue he had never overheard, never listened to, with the voice like Q's and the one which wasn't his yet tricked him into thinking it was him, he ignored it, went to the shooting range and leant against the doorframe.

Q stood, as suspected, in front of a target and practised shooting, a tiny light at the pistol shining green - coded to his palm print, again. He stood there in his stupid cardigan, with a shirt underneath it and his knitted tie, hair messy, and back turned to James, _and there was blood pouring down his head, sticky, warm blood dropping down and soaking his shirt._

_He ran towards him, taking the gun out of the unmoving hands, trying to not panic because no, it couldn't be real, he couldn't be-_

"What the hell are you doing, Bond?"

James flinched at the sudden sound of Q's voice right next to his ear, and as he looked down, he realised he had moved without noticing it.

He had been at the doorframe before, now stood a bit behind Q, one arm around the younger man's waist, the other hand holding the gun Q had just used, light red, gun blocked.

He could feel Q's pulse underneath his fingers, still connected to his wrist, only holding the gun out of his reach.

"Let me go, Bond, and then explain to me why you thought taking the gun out of my hand when I intented to **shoot** appeared to be a good idea in your head", Q said through - in annoyance - gritted teeth, in one long breath he now exhaled.

James let go and took a step backwards, allowing Q the personal space he obviously wanted. James' urges screamed at him, the instinct to get Q and take him as far away as possible from the gun so strong that it nearly drove James mad, hands shaking as he quickly put them in the pockets of his trousers to hide the tremor.

There was no _blood_ , not the tiniest bit, not the sheer amount of the red liquid he had seen for the glimpse of a moment. Q was breathing, alive, and not _dead_ like James had thought him to be, his skin pale, but not _white_.

No _blood._

_Blood._

James blinked a few times against the forming headache, burning and exploding behind his eyes, creeping up to his temples and to the back of his head in a pulsation. He closed his eyes and opened them a moment after, ignoring how Q frowned at him, taking the bullets out of the gun.

Good, James thought, he can't use a gun without bullets, there is no need to worry. Just take him away from the gun.

He had no idea where those thoughts just came from, but he would like them to disappear, fuck off and let him be, before he would go to medical on his own without being forced to, just to make it stop.

"What the hell is wrong with you today? Are you drunk?"

Q took a step forward and narrowed his eyebrows, sniffing the air around James suspiciously. Giving a sigh, James let him, eyes carefully watching his every move just in case, paranoia died hard, and never let him go.

 _"You_ drank again, _didn't you? I_ told _you not_ to."

"I'm not hungover, Q _dear_."

Q gave a snort and turned to the gun again, taking it and the bullets, before storming out, leaving James little time to react and grasp his wrist.

Thin, so easily breakable underneath his fingers, his pulse quickening, and his eyes sparkling with confusion as he turned to Bond, standing still.

_"I am sorry, I only drank a bit, but it's not that much, really. Did you have any luck?_

_"He already has an assistant, and doesn't need one. I'm getting desperate, my dear Sixsmith, and I don't know what to do. I'll have to travel, I'm afraid."_

_"Travel? But you could try it here, play and-"_

"Can you play the piano, Q?", James asked after seconds of staring into Q's green eyes, seconds of loosing himself in them and of never wanting to let go.

Q said nothing and only titled his head, unblinking.

"It would be possible, giving the fact that your job requires fast work with keys. Can you play the piano, Q?"

His voice got more insisting, firmer. Something in his eyes must have attracted Q's attention, because for the next few moments, neither of them made a single movement, silently standing opposite to each other with James' fingers around Q's wrist.

He could snap it at once, James thought, he could hurt Q within a second and could break those delicate fingers until he couldn't use them anymore, _he could hurt and break his career, but would never, and whenever they made love, it was gentle, because **he** bruised easily._

"I can, yes."

An answer, finally. James nodded and let go of Q's wrist, not knowing why the feeling of relief rushed through him, warm and beautiful, accompanied by the thought of 'It's good he didn't stop, it would have been a shame'.

James' thoughts made less and less sense the more he focused on them, the longer those flash-back-ish imaginations went on, the closer he was to Q.

His whole... being was dragged forward with such a force that James felt in a constant struggle, and being away meant being away from Q, a thought which got more unbearable each day.

Taking a deep, steady breath, Q turned after a last glance into James' eyes and left the range, and James let him.

He had little chance to do anything else, and the mere thought of wanting to stop Q confused James to an amount he wasn't used to, wasn't familiar with.

He had no reason to stop Q, and had no reason to take the gun away from him.

There was no need to worry about Q being dead, because he never left his branch, and never was in danger, except for when his minions played with explosives after three days of staying awake, with too much caffeine in their system, and not enough nutrients besides that.

It was the least logical course of action to take a prototype of a gun out of the hands of the person who invented and built it, and especially when said person was about to pull the trigger. Something could have happened. The bullet could have been re-directed by the ceiling and hit Q, or he could have knocked Q over and something worse could have happened, and it would have been James' fault.

His fault only, because he wouldn't be _I'm not quick enough, it's too late_ fast enough to stop him.

Fear was a strange, new feeling. _One he wasn't quite_ familiar with.

It was an _all-consuming, all-prepossessing burning urge in his veins, boiling, hot, destroying like a demon, with_ its claws scratching and _tearing_ at his mind, and with _its teeth ripping his sanity_ apart.

James wondered where those thoughts just came from, and why he felt like he had been thinking them before, once, in the past at a moment full of grief, hurt and blackness, but he couldn't remember when.

Not Vesper's death, because all he had felt had been anger, and the pain of loss.

Not at M's death, because he hadn't been able to feel anything then.

What then? What was it?

Seeing how an agent entered the range to practise, James walked out and just paced through the corridors, not knowing what to do now, where to go, and how to deal with the problem whose source he didn't know.

Fear, James thought, was a disadvantage, and it lead him straight back to Q-branch again, where he stopped at the doorframe, looking at Q's back.

Imagining to _kiss it, this pale, slender and soft being_ , and feeling the skin underneath his lips, with a feeling of nostalgia he couldn't understand.

He would remember tasting Q's flesh, wouldn't he? He would remember how it would feel to _let his hands roam over his side, those strangely curvy, almost boy-like hips_ and how Q _'s moans were like a melody, just like those he played on his keys._

James turned around again and left the room, deciding to tease Eve a bit to distract himself.

He ignored the pulling in his chest, the urge to turn and take Q away where no one _he couldn't hurt himself_ and the want to kiss him, to apologise for no _some_ thing.

He kept on walking, and it felt like walking away from a part of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I first want to thank you for your support, you all are so wonderful :)
> 
> Second, I don't know if it's clear what I wanted to show with the constant change between italic and normal. Italic represents memories of the past life, normal is the present. And the switch? It's mixed up.
> 
> Just wanted to clear that^^


	3. Chapter 3

_He ran up the stairs as fast as he could, his heart beating fast, too fast, not the steady, controlled beat it usually was. He felt like screaming, and like crying, like laughing in hysteria and the pure feeling of something shattering inside him._

_Maybe there was no reason to panic._

_Maybe he was worrying without a reason and his mind was playing sick, twisted games on him, but he hadn't been there this morning, and it couldn't be a coinsidence, it simply wasn't possible._

_He nearly slipped as he tried to get up faster, so many possibilities, endings and dramas going through his head, a constant singing of 'I'm going to be too late, he will be dead-_

James put the glass down on the table, some of the liquid inside spilling on the table and newspaper he was reading, most just nearly swapping over the rim.

Lifting his hand, James gave a yawn, hiding it behind his palm, and turned the page, choosing to ignore the spilled liquid like he chose to ignore the constant stream of thoughts going through his mind.

He had stopped dreaming about the shot, for once.

Last night he had woken up sweating and panting, and had found himself being rock-hard. With his body and flesh hurting in a way it shouldn't have, and aching for the touch of a lover who wasn't there, because James was alone, and not even the woman he had flirted with had stilled this hunger for affection.

It hadn't been the urge to have sex, not until now, it had always been the shot.

It had always been red, red blood, and a gun, a tub and death, but now it was something else and the thought scared him.

This wasn't just one silly and stupid imagination, it were more, waiting in the back of his head to break free and poison his mind. Like a curse, black and dark, and horrible.

It was worse than Vesper's death.

It shouldn't be, it should not have been possible, yet here he was, staring at his ceiling after a night of new dreams, and a night of stroking himself until he came, with Q's name on his lips and another one, one he had heard before.

A night of seeing Q's face in his mind, seeing pale flesh slide dirtily against flesh, of hearing moans in the silence of his room accompanying his own, an echo, and a night of lying in the bed with his hand still sticky with come.

It had been a night unlike the ones before, when he had woken up with tears running down his cheeks, with his eyes being red and puffy, but it had the same taste.

Sour, bitter, and sweet at the same time, so bittersweet and disgustingly beautiful.

There was a part of him which didn't want this to stop, who wanted to keep on dreaming, _remembering_ , and the rest of him just wanted to have a night full of sleep, and a night without a headache at the following day.

James downed his water after the pill had completely disappeared, leaving behind a bubbling, soda-like drink disgusting on his tongue, but by now he was more than used to it, and not bothered anymore.

M had sent him home yesterday after claiming to see dark circles under James' eyes, shortly after James had started flirting with Eve.

Flirting and seducing had felt weird, since he had made Q's acquaintance in the National Gallery, in front of this bloody big ship and after a conversation about time.

A conversation which had left James with the feeling of desperation in the aftermath, and yet which had filled him with a feeling of being whole again, if only for a moment.

He had gone down into Q-branch more often since then, and the dreams had started back then.

Now there was a new one, after dreaming of a shot. He didn't know whether to appreciate it or hate it, went for the second option and slammed the glass back on the table again.

So he had strange dreams, and he had no idea where they came from or why he had them. There was worse, and there was no reason to go and panic because of it. In fact there were better things to worry about, like Britain's safety, or his own sake. Maybe he should stop drinking.

James smirked. As if this would ever happen.

He looked down at his empty glass and briefly wondered whether he should get through the troubles of standing up and going to fetch the bottle in the kitchen, or if he should move and get into the HQ like he was supposed to be. It was nine am, and he should have been there for a conference with M two hours ago.

Though, the agent thought, getting up to walk into his kitchen and fetch himself a new drink, he couldn't be arsed to care when he was nearly out of alcohol.

The bottle was half empty already, he realised with a sting of annoyance, meaning he would have to steal another one from M's house or actually buy it on his own.

He stretched, seeing his muscles flex, and tense in his reflection in the mirror, turning around to miss the glimpse of another face, with darker hair, darker eyes speaking of happiness, and not the general coldness James hit behind.

He didn't see how there were white, pale arms around the person, hands covering his face, and he couldn't hear the laugher of two men in the silence of the room as he left, putting his suit jacket on and correcting his tie.

The streets were nearly empty, the ground covered in rain and a bit of snow which would melt again anyway, and as he stepped out of his car in front of the HQ, cold, unloving and harsh wind cut into his skin like a knife, its blade leaving behind scars over his wrinkles and others, older ones.

Invisible ones, but they were there and he could feel it, a constant reminder that he wasn't as invincible like he believed himself to be, and that he was human. Disgustingly, so incredibly human and weak, pathetic.

James pushed the thought away, walked up to M and let himself be ranted at for two hours straight, before he found his way back down to Q-branch again.

Q wasn't there, and as James asked where he was, the minions shrugged.

So either the Quartermaster was at home, somewhere in another country being tortured or he was just late. Given the fact that this was Q, the latter was unlikely, since he had to be dragged away physically and sometimes with violence to make him get some sleep. And most of the times, he came back after two hours, and everyone just sighed and put some sleeping pills into his tea.

James turned around again, walked past Moneypenny who shot him a confused look, and drove to where he knew Q's flat was.

After a nasty, and nearly lethal attempt to end Q's life by shooting through the windows of his old flat, they had given the Quartermaster a flat which was around some agents' and which also was under surveillance. James had read the address once after getting his hands on the files before they were burnt.

He didn't bother to knock, if Q had for once shown some mercy for his own bodily needs he was sleeping right now, simply broke in and nearly was being hit by a tranquiliser dart he hardly managed to dodge, struggled to get past the alert system and deactivate it and couldn't suppress the way he rolled his eyes at the sight of the sheer chaos.

Papers, laying around everywhere.

Guns drawn on it, some bombs, gadgets James had seen on the tables laying around in Q-branch, codes, words he didn't even understand because they were in a secret and invented language of Q's, other papers looking as if they had been ripped out of a book.

There was one which caught James' attention, and he bent down, carefully stepping over something which looked like a dead mouse. Q wasn't often here, he figured.

It was a paper full with notes, a sheet with a chaotic, almost not readable handwriting next to the notes, some saying the names of instruments, other just random letters, and words which made no sense.

It was a sextet, or so it seemed to James' eye, overlapping soloists in which each solo was interrupted by its successor in the first section, while in the second one, each interruption was recontinued.

Next to the first part, there were the words _piano, clarinet, cello, flute, oboe, and violin_ , perhaps the instruments this piece was written for. James turned the paper around, the handwriting saying _"cello allegro lit by explosive triplets"_ , another part _"W-flat, whole string section, glorious, transcendent"_ and there was a tiny note at the bottom of the paper, saying _"The boundaries between noise and sound are conventions"_.

Somehow this all made James' stomach turn and made him look down at the chaos of papers, eyes roaming over each to find the next pages, because this couldn't be it. He had never been a fan of music except for the occasional concert or opera he had taken a target out to, had never bothered to learn how to play an instrument except for his gun and women, but even he could tell that this last note was not the end.

It was instinct, a feeling in his gut, and it usually never was wrong.

He bent down, grasping some papers and throwing them on the table, going through them with a quick efficiency he couldn't quite understand, but he didn't question it and simply kept on searching for something whose appearance or form he didn't know.

There were some other note sheets amongst the chaos and pile of old, used ones, but they weren't the ones he was looking for and he simply threw them on the ground next to the table, trying to at least bring a bit of order into this.

_"You shouldn't let everything lie around, what if you have to get out quickly? I can't explain why there are note sheets on my ground."_

_"Maybe you suddenly got possessed by the urge to become a composer?"_

_**He** laughed, and his heart fluttered in his chest, admiring the view of the back turned to him, and the curves of his butt, pale, glowing flesh in the moonlight of the night._

_"Do you really want me to touch your notes, or even your piano?"_

_"Oh god no. Fingers off that."_

James found another one of those papers, but it wasn't the one following right after the first, or maybe the first wasn't even the first and he was being confused even though he had no bloody idea why.

He put the two pages down on the table, pushed the others off and took another handful of others, ending up covering the couch and ground around said in papers, one after another, frustration clawing at his mind in an ugly way.

Being too distracted by that, and the confusing happiness it brought him as he found another page, beginning to imagine the melody and strangely being capable of doing so, he didn't notice that there suddenly was a person standing in the doorframe from what he thought was Q's bedroom to the living room, until there was the noise of someone clearing his throat, and James nearly let the papers fall with a flinch.

His hand twitched, about to reach out to his gun only to realise that he had left it in the HQ.

Turning, he caught a glimpse of black, messy hair, curls covering Q's huge, sleepy eyes. They even were bigger when Q didn't wear his glasses, and they were shining.

His face was thinner, without them, and James felt a sting of something in his chest, making him narrow his eyebrows.

Q opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it again though, eyes fixed on James but he was somehow looking right through him. He blinked, yawning, and James' immediate thought was 'cute'.

The Quartermaster opened his mouth again only to close it once more, and then turned into the direction of the kitchen and patted away. He was barefooted, and the trousers of his pyjamas were far too large for him, slipping down his slim bondy hips as he walked. James stared at his back, waited for three minutes to see Q return with a cup of tea.

He downed four before he realised he didn't have his glasses on, and he drank another one before apparently he thought himself to be capable of speech.

"What are you doing here?"

James said nothing, only staring at the papers. "What is it called?"

"What?"

"This piece. It seems familiar."

Something in Q's posture made James frown, and he looked tormented for a moment, but his expression closed again.

"It's called the Cloud Atlas Sextet."

"Sextet?"

"Written for six instruments."

"Piano, clarinet, cello, flute, oboe, and violin?"

Q only nodded, sipping at his tea, and James had the feeling he was hiding something, because suddenly Q looked nervous and out of place, like a lost kitten or kicked puppy. James wanted to reach out, hug him and never let him go again, but he turned the page around, trying to search the name of the composer.

"Written by whom?", James asked after a while, looking up.

"Robert Frobisher."

James felt the brush of lips against his, heard a familiar voice say this name with a laugh, and blinked, grip around the paper going tight, hands shaking and knuckles white, and he struggled to breathe freely because something was pressing on his chest.

It was back, his headache, and he let out a long breath through his nostrils.

"Bond?"

James blinked. "Yes, Q?"

Q stepped closer, taking a glance at the notes, a strange expression rushing across his features. "You said it seems familiar, how come? I didn't take you as the fan of such unpopular music."

"Why unpopular?"

The Quartermaster sighed, took some papers off the couch and sat down next to Bond, fingers curling around the handle of his cup. His fingers were long, thin, bony, those of a musician and not those of a nerd.

"There are only six copies. It never made it."

"How come?"

Q hesitated. "The composer killed himself, shot in his head."

James felt sick, and there suddenly was a scream echoing through the room, making his muscles tense and his eyes widen, and with horror he realised it was his own.

His hands flew up to his temples and he was horrified as he felt blood, trying to find a wound but there was none there.

He vaguely felt that Q was shaking him, and that he was calling his name, but James couldn't understand him, not when there was an angel laughing in front of him, saying his name except for that it wasn't his, but he felt like it was.

_"Rufus..."_


	4. Chapter 4

_"You were never supposed to know. They said it was my curse."_

_"Who told you that? What curse? What are you-"_

_"They said you'd never remember. That I would be seeing you almost every day, hear your voice, breathe the same air as you once again, but you wouldn't remember it."_

_"It?"_

_**He** hesitated, and he reached out to the other, but **he** took a step backwards and away from him. His hand sank down, eyes widening at pain sharp like knives going into his skull washing over his body, making him gasp._

_"Y-you... you are you alright?"_

_"What-what is going on? I-I... you are slipping..."_

_"You are waking up. I am sure you won't remember anything once you do, but the hope is still there. I should have known that, should we remember each other, it would happen because of the music, but your reaction was... interesting even."_

_"Interesting? I passed out, love. How is that interesting?"_

_**He** laughed, eyes sparkling, shining with an emotion he didn't know, but it was so obvious he wanted to reach out to **him** and take **his** hand, make it go away. It was a stupid wish, something which would not happen nor get true, but hope, he had noticed the first time they had met again, was an ugly liar, keeping him in his claws._

_"I don't want to wake up."_

_"I don't want you to."_

_"Then don't. Don't let me wake up. We both want to stay together, but we cannot when you let me wake up. Please, I-I... I lost you once already."_

_**He** smiled, but it was sad, did not reach **his** eyes._

_"I am here, love. I never left. I was in your heart, and now I'm in a new form, with the same face."_

_"If you have the same face, why can't I remember you? Why are you a stranger to me, you of all people? Please... you... you know something, I can feel it. You're the answer yet you refuse to help. Why?"_

_"I am the answer, my dear Sixsmith, to find it however is your task. The dreams are getting worse, th-that must mean something..."_

_He stepped forward and reached out to take Robert's hand, but he was fading, his shapes twisted and turning, and everything going wobbly like fog. A noise of desperation left his mouth, followed by a sob as Robert was gone completely, the last thing he had seen a teardrop or two._

_He sank on his knees, hitting the ground with his fist, white turning black and tears into blood, sticky and warm and running down his hands, over the ground, right to a body laying on the ground._

_Part of him wanted to run away from it, to hide, but the rest made him look at it from closer, step after step echoing in a none-existing room._

_Black underneath, black next to him, over him, all around his body._

_He lowered his head to look into the creature's face, seeing blood which poured out of his head onto the ground._ Q _Robert's unmoving body, eyes_ staring up at him, panic _dead written in them_.

_"James..."_

_"James..."_

_"Wake up..."_

James' eyes snapped open in a painful motion, pain shooting through his skull and down his neck, over his spine down to his toes. It was a horrible feeling, like it came from within, eating him alive, and the agent was about to push the weight next to him off the underground he was laying on as it all came back to him, like a hammer crushing his head.

"If you push me off my own couch Bond, I swear I'll make you the most useless and ridiculous weapon in existance", Q muttered in James' ear, letting go of his shoulders, moving a bit backwards to give him space, "You had a nightmare."

"I know how a nightmare feels, Q, and that certainly wasn't one." James sat up and rubbed the back of his head, then his eyes, trying to blink the sleepiness away. "Who is Sixsmith?"

"Pardon?"

James turned his head to look at Q and frowned, suddenly overcome with the feeling that he knew something James didn't.

"Sixsmith. It's a name, who does it belong to?"

Q blinked at him. "How am I supposed to know that? There are many people with names like that, in England alone. I can run a check and give you the names of everyone related to that, but that would be an abuse of my power."

"Says the Quartermaster who searched a new flat with the help of security cameras and satelites."

"It was perfectly reasonable to search for a flat within the radar of MI6's cameras and within a walking distance, if you have to know", Q said, raising an eyebrow at Bond, "How do you know that anyway?"

"I was at your computer, the recordings were open." Q fell silent and James took that as an opportunity to make him talk, and if he had to force it out of him. Q knew something, and James wanted him to share this knowledge. "Who is Sixsmith?"

"I told you, there could be many people with that name."

James sighed in frustration, sat up and turned to Q, staring into his eyes.

Their green was familiar, and he automatically relaxed like his body associated it with warmth and comfort, even though his mind did not know the reason for that. Q wet his lips and looked away, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Q, there is someone named Sixsmith, who I was addressed as."

Q frowned. "What do you mean addressed as?"

After entering Her Majesty's Secret Service, an agent was told to trust their Quartermaster, no matter what kind of situation they found themselves in. If they did not trust the one making their weapons, the voice in their ears, who could they trust?

James felt as if he should not, because the situation seemed to require a healthy amount of mistrust and suspicion, but it slipped out almost automatically. "There was a man with the name Robert, and he called me Sixsmith. 'My dear Sixsmith', he said."

"Maybe your dreams are trying to tell you something", Q said slowly, carefully choosing his words, "What did the man look like?"

James leant back against the couch, realising that Q had put away the papers. The chaos on the ground was gone, from the drawn weapons and numbers, to the notesheets James had tried to put together earlier. The Cloud Atlas Sextet, he remembered, this name had something bitter to it, something lingering, bittersweet and like an embrace.

"You put the papers away", he stated, obviously catching Q off-guard, "Finally developing a sense of order and neatness?"

Q patted a melody on the backrest of the couch with his index finger, something James vaguely recognised, but did not know the name of.

"Funny. I asked a question, double-oh-seven, what did this Robert look like?"

"Like you."

Q tensed, every single muscle visible under paper-like skin. He let out a long breath and stood up, moving away from James like he was being afraid. James turned his head a bit to see the area behind him, but the two of them were alone.

There was no logical reason for Q to be afraid, yet he seemed to be.

"W-what do you mean like me?"

James gestured to Q. "Curly brown hair, almost black, chaotic and messy. Green eyes, with a bit of brown and grey, and a bony figure. Not as skinny as you are, and without any glasses, but the facial structure was the same." He let the words sink in, eyes narrowed in a sudden realisation. "Something is going on, Q, something involving you. It's always ou. The chaos and the nightmares, it all started with you and the Gallery."

Q took another step backwards, flinching as James got on his feet, swaying for a moment. "You-you should sit down. You just broke down-"

"Nonesense."

James rushed over to Q's side and reached out, curling his rough fingers around Q's slender neck, fingers nearly completely going around it. He put the other against the wall against which he backed Q, the other not having a single chance to break free.

Q's eyes widened and he struggled. "Let go of me, double-oh-seven."

James shook his head and applied a bit of pressure, gritting his teeth. "I am suffering from nightmares, and have from the day on I met you. It's always about death, about a man shooting himself, and he has your face. Everything seems to get together with you. And I want an answer, an explanation, **something**."

"I don't know what you are talking about, double-oh-seven, now let me go."

Out of a sudden instinct James pressed against Q's throat and stepped closer, his chest against Q's, more muscular body pinning him and making it impossible to move.

He lifted his other hand to Q's neck and pressed, colour draining from the Quartermaster's face, eyes widening.

"Bond, s-stop", he rasped out, own hands coming up to cover James', trying to pull him away, "S-Stop th-this... l-et g-go of me... Rufus!"

James stepped backwards as if he had been burnt, lowering his hands to his side numbly.

Q took deep breaths and shook his head, coughing quietly. For several moments neither of them said anything, silence heavy on them like the weight of a car or something heavier, like a piano.

Q rubbed his throat, where the shapes of James' fingers slowly became visible in the form of bruises. James felt a sting of guilt and reached out, but Q glared at him and he let his hand drop again.

"Don't do that again. I warn you."

"I-"

"No, shut it. I want you out, now. Go back to your flat, and..." He shook his head, coughing again. "Why did you do this?"

"I... I do not have an answer for this, I'm afraid."

Q raised an eyebrow. "So this was nothing but a reaction without a reason?"

As James said nothing Q sighed, running a hand through his hair and making it messier as it already had been. "Please, out."

James hesitated, wanting to reach out to Q and apologise, he wanted to kiss him and take him into his arms until it would be better again, but he didn't. He wet his lips, a very uncharacteristic motion for him he noticed, and folded his hands behind his back.

"Q... I just want to..."

"Understand? I can't help you with that double-oh-seven, because I'm no expert about dreams. I can only tell you that I want you gone, now. And I want you to apologise." Q crossed his arms, huffing.

"I'm sorry."

Q laughed. "Nice try. Now-" He pointed at his door. "-out."

James turned around, approaching the door slowly, keeping Q in the corner of his vision just in case. His fingers curled around the handle, ready to press it down, but he didn't.

He turned around, driven by something, and went over to Q, crushing his lips on Q's.

Much to his surprise, the younger man kissed back without a moment of hesitation, his lips soft and warm against James'. He wrapped an arm around Q's waist and pulled him closer, loosing himself in the sensation.


	5. Chapter 5

James didn't know how long he and Q were kissing each other, the rough sliding of their tongues, a dance of passion and fire, emotions suppressed for too long.  
He had no idea what was going on.

In one moment they had been fighting, he nearly had choked Q, and in the next he was slipping his hands under Q's shirt and was pulling him closer, caressing the soft skin of his stomach.

This was fuelled by more than just sexual frustration, more than just attraction. There was more behind, something old and forgotten, ancient almost and yet he couldn't put a finger on it.

It felt natural to kiss Q on the lips, that was all he knew, all he cared about at this particular moment in which heaven came down to earth and the world stopped turning. Seconds were minutes, minutes years, the blink of an eye enough for him to measure time in his own interpretation, a new form of the universe coming down in Q's eyes fluttering open as James drew away, and the melody of life played by his breath as James bit into his neck.

Q bruised fascinatingly fast, a light red mark forming just above his collarbone.

Would James have been blessed with a great presence of mind at this moment, he would have noticed that Q couldn't hide this mark. But even then a part of him surely would be happy about it, about leaving a visible sign of possession on the young Quartermaster.

There was something very worrying about how natural it felt to think about Q like a possession, like an object he wanted to own, call his; a claim none of them had been aware of before, and yet James felt like an idiot for not feeling it earlier.

He pushed Q against the wall again and left another mark and another, soon Q's whole neck covered in bruises of all kinds, and James left scratching marks on his chest, overwhelmed by guilt and love and too much to handle at once.

Q gasped as James dug his nails into his stomach and attacked his neck again, a gentle thumping against the wall as he lay his head back and let out a low moan.

Nothing would have stopped James from going further, doing more, but Q suddenly pushed him back with a strength someone this skinny and bony shouldn't have, moving to the opposite corner of the room like a frightened animal.

"James", he began, but Bond ignored him, moving towards him again, "No, stop, James..."

_"Don't touch me."_

_"Robert-"_

_“Don't you dare touching me, don't you dare. I don't want you to right now. No." Robert shook his head, glaring at Rufus with anger shining in his eyes. "If you touch me I'm out of this door the next second."_

_"What is wrong?"_

_Robert shook his head and took a step backwards, throwing a nervous glance towards the door, finger twitching. Out of instinct,_ James _took a step towards him and reached out, his fingers brushing over_ Q's _shirt._

_The fist colliding with his jaw made him stumble backwards and tears rush into his eyes, unable to do anything as Robert stormed out and threw the door closed._

_He stood there dumbfounded and numb, feeling nothing but the throbbing of his jaw._

"I said don't touch me", Q hissed, shaking his hand and blowing air on the bruising knuckles, red and angry after the punch he had landed. "Don't. This isn't you."

"...not me?", James repeated and lifted a hand to his face, rubbing his jaw, "What are you talking about?"

"This is not you."

"You said that before."

Q rolled his eyes, sighing. "Look, there is a reason I didn't want to involve you in this, or even talk about anything related to the issue, but apparently you are stubborn even when you have no bloody idea what it is about."

James raised an eyebrow, staying silent. Q's punch had been hard, stronger than it should have been possible, leaving a red mark on his chin and a painful pulsation under his skin. He grimaced to see if there was any damage done, but fortunately Q wasn’t that capable.

Or he had held back, but that was a thought James didn’t want to go after, or would prefer not to think about ever again.

“What do you mean with this isn’t me?”, James tried again, tempted to step closer, but he didn’t want to be punched again. Q had taken him off-guard twice today, not again.

“This isn’t you”, Q sighed. He took off his glasses and put them away, messing up his hair, straightening his posture only to let it sink a bit, whole expression and features having changed so dramatically that James took a step backwards in surprise. “And this wasn’t me either.”

“Q-“

“No, come on, say my name. I’m sure by now even you figured it out.”

The agent wet his lips and even bit into the lower one, worrying it between his teeth. It felt as wrong as it probably looked, and yet like he had done it several times before, a characteristic movement and nervous habit for him even though it wasn’t.

It had never been, before.

“I don’t know your name, Q, that’s the purpose of a codename.”

The younger man just raised a not-amused eyebrow, waiting with impatience written over his features. This wasn’t Q anymore, James thought, this was someone else, someone James knew but it couldn’t be, it was just a dream...  
“Robert.”

Q clapped comically, tilting his head. “Correct. I’m not sure whether I should call you James or Rufus, or if I should combine the two names. It would definitely be more accurate.”  
James frowned. “Pardon?”

“Rufames? Jamus?”

“Q, what the hell are you talking about?!”

“How about Jamus? Wait, there’s a shop or something with that name...”, Q hummed, tapping on his chin, “In a foreign language Jamus means Germany, well, you have been born there so it would fit, but...”

“Q!”

“Yes, Jamus?”

“You are childish.”

Q gave a bow and grinned, dropping his smile a moment later though, eyes fixed on James. They looked haunted, empty, hollow, every word James associated with pain and trauma suppressed to the point it was impossible to tell which emotions were genuine and which not.

James knew that expression, he had seen it on himself far too often.

“That I am. Glad you noticed that.”

They fell silent for a few moments and looked at each other in comfortable silence, in which Q stared, and James tried to put together the little bits and pieces of information he had gathered together over the course of the last days and weeks.

It soon became uncomfortable for James whose head began to hurt, explosions behind his eyes, sparkles going through his mind, each more painful than the one before.

He sighed, rubbing his temples with two fingers. “Okay, so you are Robert Fro...”

“Frobisher. At your service.” Q nearly bowed again, but James held a hand up to stop him. “And do you know who you are?”

“This Sixsmith guy?”, he guessed, shrugging helplessly.

Q nodded. “Rufus Sixsmith. We...” He laughed, running a hand through his messy hair. “Damn, I never thought I’d have to explain this to anyone.”

“You knew about this all along, and you chose not to tell me?”

Strangely, James felt hurt. He had have a right to know about his dreams, about the people he had seen in his imagination and the things, all those confusing events having felt real. He had thought he had gone crazy, but now he knew that either both of them were, in fact, insane, or this was real.

Somehow, James wanted the first one to be real. It’d be easier to get accustomed to.

“I was told I couldn’t tell you.”

“By?”

Q sighed, gesturing to the couch. Almost as if the ordinary way wasn’t good enough for him Q jumped over the backrest and lay his head on the armrest, leaving little space for James to sit onto.

“I don’t know. I shot myself and then boom!” He made a gesture associated with explosions, eyes wide and sparkling. “There was this voice. Telling me I have committed a sin and that my punishment would last ages and decades.”

James frowned, turning his head towards the other, looking down on him.

There was the instinct of pure want cursing through his veins, of arousal seeing Q like that, sprawled out, shirt having slipped up to show his soft, flat stomach, and even some part of his hipbones.

He licked his lips, forcing himself to look away again.

“I was alone for years. I don’t know when you died as Sixsmith and when James came, but I wasn’t there. The voice haunted me, told me about your life, and all I could do was waiting in this room of blackness and pure nothing until they let me go back into the world.” Q spread his arms, pointing at himself. “Voilà. Here I am. I was sent here and lived a life as Q with the memories of you until we meet. And even then the voice was there, an annoying and bloody loud voice in my head.”

“This is so surreal”, James breathed out, overwhelmed, “You don’t sound like the Q I came to know.”

“That’s because I’m not.” Q sat up and threw his legs over James’ lap, moving closer until they were on the same height. “This was nothing but an act, and trust me, it was hard to keep it up. I didn’t know if you could remember or not, but I knew that I had to make sure nothing would remind you of who I used to be.”

James looked at Q and leant down, shoving a few wisps of hair out of his face, stroking over his cheeks softly.

“Who are you, Q or Robert?”

“Q isn’t real. I am Robert.” Q smiled, tilting his head cheekily, with an almost seductive sparkle in his eyes. “And you are James. Or Rufus. At the moment, you seem to be both.”

“Is that why part of me wants to kill you, and the rest wants to kiss you?”  
Q chuckled and nodded, lifting his head and letting his lips brush over James’. “I’m sorry for slapping you earlier. Forgive me?”

Something in Q’s eyes made James nod immediately, a familiar feeling of guilt washing over him. He didn’t know why he suddenly blamed himself for all of this, but he did and it hurt.

He wrapped an arm around Q’s waist and pulled him down with him, until Q was on top and he could hold him securely in his arms. His expression softened and he felt himself smile, and the urge to kiss the living shit out of Q for doing this to him.

Being romantic, or rough, loving, or hard. Two opinions fighting in his head, neither winning.

“I’m sorry for being late”, James mumbled, “I could have saved you.”

“I didn’t want you to.” Q let his lips brush James’ again and smiled, winking. “Now kiss me?”

And James did, pressing his lips on Q’s, getting familiar with his body again. He didn’t know if Rufus or James was the one leading, he didn’t care, couldn’t, not when it felt this good.

The doubt James felt was overwhelmed by the love from Rufus’ heart, just like his personality slowly was being washed away.


End file.
